


Senses of You

by ashflower



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Introspection, No Plot, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Slight spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23275909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashflower/pseuds/ashflower
Summary: If he could remember taste and therefore scent, then he is sure that this is what Byleth must smell like —cold and crisp, but clean— for every time the snow melts, there is still the steady earth underneath it.For Camy, belated, but with everlasting love.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Senses of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Camy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camy/gifts).



The first sense that he loses is his sense of taste. It happens before he even knows it, before he even understands the how and the why. 

He remembers sitting at the dining table one evening, with a perfect meal in front of him. His uncle sits beside him cutting through the cut of steak, with his lover of the day —week— Dimitri thinks it won’t last a month; but nevertheless, even with his presence, it is as though he is not there to begin with.

He cuts through his own meat but it is bland. He does not taste the scent of salt and peppers; the garlic; the thyme. The vegetables are dull amongst his tongue. Texture soft from being steamed but bland. 

The soup, he realizes, when he brings a spoonful to his mouth… although thick and and hearty, is nothing more than water to him. He crinkles his eyebrows, but continues through his meal and finishes the rest of it quietly. 

Ever since then, war flashbacks tug on the edges of his sanity. It is in no ironic reminder as it is sad and solemn, for every time he tastes salt, he can remember the tears through strained eyes as he grieved over the battlefield. Every time he tastes sugar, it is accompanied with the dirt and grime of the earth that he clawed through—mountains of soil around him, thick and heavy on his tongue, as he pushed through the carcasses of his deceased family and friends who ensured his survival with their own flesh. 

When it comes to bitterness, Dimitri remembers nothing. (He has become immune to it.)

* * *

The next to go is his sight. Completely blind in one eye and—gradually, losing sight in the other. Nevertheless, in the end, it makes no difference when he still can’t tell right from wrong. He only knows that all that oppose him must end, whomever they are — _what_ ever they are— as long as they stand opposite of him, they will perish.

Even though he is blind in the physical world, he has attained a third one in its place. One that has laid dormant over the years but in his waning visionary, has become his sixth sense of the world. 

He has never known the green of the grass until he had heard the breeze over them; the softer the sound, the fresher they were. The crispier the wind, the more he knew the fields were old.

The furs of the animals he wears had once been a luxury, but he had never known the meaning of privilege until he had to sleep without them, amidst empty alleyways and falling snow.

The flickers of flames are similar to how he feels: wicks of rage and anger, and he finds a genuine satisfaction whenever he sees his enemies burn to a crisp due to the fires he has started. 

He has been able to see the world in a different light, thanks to this third eye, but the most prominent of all his epiphanies is the ability to see the ghosts: those who have always been there, and surely, will always. 

Viciously. Angry. 

Calmly. Peacefully.

His only companions in a world that has abandoned him, and he finds comfort in their haunts.

Some nights, he sees Byleth. In his dreams or in his reality —he has long stopped trying to discern the difference— but at the light of the tunnel, glimpses of his strength and hope—

“Goddess,” he mutters, one night; his faith in a cruel and faithless world.

But it is only a glimpse, one that shatters when his fingers reach out.

* * *

His ears pick up on the howling of the wind. In the place of his damaged sight, his hearing has heightened. In has made him sensitive to the noises around him. 

The wind gets lost amongst the whispers that surround him; ghosts in the corner of his eyes that follow him everywhere. Ones that tell him to avenge them; others that tell him to run. Words of mercy and words of accusation— _why did you abandon us? Why haven’t you killed them all? Only when they are gone will you be forgiven!_

And then he’s screaming—shouting for them to begone at once!

Only to realize that his screams lie in his chest, his tongue mute in the world. 

No one can hear him. No one at all.

* * *

Sometimes. Just sometimes—

He thinks he can smell.

Most of the time, it is the scent of raw, burning flesh. Other times, it is the scent of some earthly tones—like the mineral of rocks? Or the freshness of frost over flowers after an overnight snowstorm. 

It is barely there—subtle, but his nose picks up on it every now and then, the reminder of what once was, from his childhood. 

If he could remember taste and therefore scent, then he is sure that this is what Byleth must smell like —cold and crisp, but clean— for every time the snow melts, there is still the steady earth underneath it.

* * *

Flesh.

His fingers ghost over flesh, then dig in, and claw. 

He feels the warmth of blood over his skin as he decimates his opponents, and thinks that the physical body… truly is so easy to break.

* * *

Dimitri fights. He ravages. He maims. 

All to appease the spirits of his past and for his own tomorrow, less so for a noble cause like the peace of the kingdom. _How foolish_ , he realizes, eventually. After years have gone by and the Empire still reigns. Once upon a time, his younger self might have assumed peace was still attainable and persisted in such a cause, but nowadays, he relishes in the chaos of his enemies at his very hands. 

It is even more of a foolish sentiment that he has held onto—what would he even say, should he truly reunite with his former peers? _I am alive; I have not died! I have survived!_ But at what cost? Ultimately, he still finds himself awaiting their arrival in the goddess tower, if they should even come.

Should they accept him or reject him… He has grown tired, too feeble, to consider such a result. If he must lay rest here, then so be it. He is tired of the fighting, and what better way to die than by the hands of his own comrades? It would be a much better way to go than at the hands of some empire scum.

He hardly notices his madness, most days, even when he hears approaching footsteps. Must be another imperial soldier, he thinks, until he looks up and sees a familiar face, and he forgets how to breathe.

It is no mistake. It is her: his teacher, who still looks the same as she did five years ago… 

First, he feels shame. Then incredulity. Then, before he truly catch onto hope— _nothing_.

“I should have known… that one day… you would be haunting me as well.”

She shakes her head, and extends her hand out to him.

“I have returned,” she says. 

He swallows hard, and when his fingertips touch hers—she is flesh. Flesh and human, or flesh and demi-human—a human born goddess.

Days, weeks, months, years later, he realizes —all of his senses diluted but in its place, a sweetness amongst the bitter— and a heart that still feels the same, even after all this time.


End file.
